


The Benefits of Hedonism

by keep_waking_up



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (due to a spell), Altered Mental States, Face-Sitting, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3311699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keep_waking_up/pseuds/keep_waking_up
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s always been a bit of a hedonist.  But not like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Benefits of Hedonism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashtraythief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashtraythief/gifts), [alycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alycat/gifts), [kjanddean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjanddean/gifts).



> Written for kinkajou, ashtraythief, and alycat as an early Kitteh Valentines and super late Kitteh Xmas! (Basically, I couldn't make the first deadline, so I made a new deadline). It's also for smpc because I'm behind like that. Hope this was what you guys wanted! Love you all!

Dean’s always been a bit of a hedonist.  Sam thinks it’s pretty impressive,  because their life doesn’t exactly support any kind of pleasure, so Dean must’ve been born with a hell of a natural predisposition; or maybe it was _because_ of their life that Dean had learned to grasp at pleasure wherever he could get it.

Sam tends to lean towards the former view, because he grew up right alongside Dean and he’s pretty much his brother’s opposite. 

Almost.  He’s with Dean when it comes to hot showers; he practically _lives_ for them.

Luckily, Dean’s tastes don’t rule him.  It’s pretty easy to make him happy; a good burger, a hot woman, or Magic Fingers would do the trick.  Sometimes it’s almost embarrassing how happy he’ll get over such simple things.  When Dean smiles, full and unreserved, there’s a part of Sam that almost wants to look away.  It’s hard to see Dean baring himself to the world like that, admitting to his own happiness.  So much of Dean has always been built around the idea of having to hide from the rest of the world that watching his smile flash, real and brilliant, at a waitress, or a bartender, or a pretty girl with a low-cut shirt makes Sam squirm.

Of course, Dean isn’t hiding anything _now_ , Sam thinks bitterly, keeping one eye on his brother while he dials Bobby’s number.  Sam isn’t really sure _what_ happened; they broke into the museum to destroy an artifact with a vengeful spirit attached to it.  Dean, being Dean, put his hands all over everything else he passed by.  (Dean’s touchiness was, perhaps, another symptom of his rampant hedonism; Sam couldn’t think of one day in the past four years since Dean had picked him up from Stanford in which Dean hadn’t touched him.  It wasn’t just him; Dean interacted with the world on an extremely physical level).  Dean was messing with a severed cougar paw (pretending to scratch at Sam and meowing in an obnoxiously high-pitch voice) when the thing went off, little blue-purple sparks blowing up Dean’s nose and making him sneeze.  Then Dean looked up at Sam, smiled his big, happy smile, and promptly nuzzled Sam’s shoulder.

Naturally, the paw was salted and burned along with the spirit’s artifact, but Dean’s odd behavior persisted.  Odd—and distinctly cat-like, Sam thinks.  Driving home, Dean lay down in the backseat, rubbing up against the leather and purring in harmony with the Impala’s engine.

Now, Dean is rolling around on the king-sized bed he’d insisted they get.  King-sized, and covered in sheets with a thread count so high that Sam knows they’re going to have to pick up new credit cards, because he’s pretty sure this room maxed their old ones out.  All this because Dean had _refused_ to go back to their old motel (“it _smells_ and the sheets are _itchy_ ”) and Sam hadn’t wanted to waste time fighting.

“Sa _—m,_ ” Dean calls out from his place on the bed, dragging out Sam’s name like it tastes good in his mouth.  “S _am_ , come feel these sheets.  They’re _great_.”

Sam has never seen his brother high (John had had some pretty strong opinions on drugs) but he imagines that it’d probably be pretty similar to Dean’s current state.  “I will,” Sam says, trying to be patient.  “I just have to call Bobby.”

Dean makes a rude noise in the back of his throat.  Sam can hear him moving around on the bed, the sheets shifting as Dean freaking _nests_.  Sam holds the phone up to his ear, listening to it ring, hoping that will drown out the noises of his brother’s obvious contentment.

“Y’hello,” Bobby answers mildly.  Sam pictures him in his kitchen, phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear.  “What have you boys done this time?”

Bobby’s fond disdain is oddly soothing to listen to, especially with Dean in his altered state.  “Hey, Bobby.”  Sam grins as he speaks.  “Look, when we were getting something from the local museum, Dean was messing with this cougar paw.  Something set it off, there were all these little blue sparks, and now he’s acting strangely.”

“Define strangely,” Bobby demands in a tired voice.

Sam glances over at the bed.  Dean was rubbing his face against one of the soft pillows, hips rocking gently against the mattress.  “Not anything alarming, just strange.  Kind of… cat-like?”

“God damn it,” Bobby sighs.  There is a shuffling of papers on the other end of the line.  “Sounds to me like a minor hex.  A sort of ‘keep your hands off’ spell.  Likely, that paw used to be used by a shaman or a medium of some sort and Dean just got zapped by a leftover hex.”  There is a pause.  “Tell your brother he’s an idiot.”

“Believe me, I have,” Sam grumbles, shifting so his back is entirely to Dean.  “So, what do we do?”

There was more shuffling on the other end of the line.  “Well,” Bobby starts, and that is all Sam hears before Dean, coming in on Sam’s side, straddles Sam’s lap, and bats the phone out of Sam’s hand.  The phone, which is the cheapest model the company offers, clatters to the floor, ending up on its back so Sam can see the cracks in the center of its small screen.

“Damn it, Dean!”  Sam tries to shove Dean off his lap, but Dean sinks his fingers into Sam’s biceps and rides it out.  “What the fuck, man?  You broke my phone _and_ interrupted my conversation with Bobby.  Now I’ve got no idea how the fuck to fix you!”

“Chill, dude,” Dean says, annoyingly calm.  “I’m gonna be fine.  And I’ll buy you a new phone.”

Dean’s legs are spread over Sam’s own as he straddles him.  His ass is right over Sam’s dick, rolling in gentle circles, and it’s a tempting distraction.  “Stop that,” Sam snaps, and it sounds bitchy even to him.  “Why did you hit my phone in the first place?”

For a second, Dean blinks at him, like he doesn’t really know.  Then his lower lip puckers in a slight pout and he says, with a petulance that Dean never normally shows, “you were ignoring me.”  He pauses, looks briefly to the side, and then adds, “and I was bored.”

“You were bored,” Sam repeats flatly, trying to keep his voice level, even as Dean rolls his hips absentmindedly.  Dean’s hands are massaging his biceps lightly, working their way towards Sam’s chest.  “You broke my phone because you were _bored._ ”

Dean shrugs nonchalantly, clearly not seeing the problem.  “You were ignoring me,” he states plainly.  He casts a narrow-eyed glare down at the broken phone.  “Forget about your stupid cellphone.  There are better things for you to pay attention to.”

Sam raises one eyebrow and looks deliberately down at Dean’s gently undulating hips.  “Better things, huh?”  His tongue flits out to wet his lips unconsciously and he is rewarded by Dean pressing the slightest bit closer.  His dick twitches with interest.

Smirking, Dean rubs his ass teasingly against the stiffening line of Sam’s cock.  “Uh-huh,” he agrees, voice husky.

This wouldn’t be the first time they’d had sex.  It had been nearly three and a half years since they’d first tumbled into bed together, half-drunk, Sam just barely out of his grief-induced haze of revenge.  They had never been exclusive, not after Sam died, not during the year of Dean’s deal, not even after they’d managed to get him out of it.  They had sex when they wanted to have sex, and didn’t when they didn’t.  It was fun, uncomplicated in a way things in their life rarely were, and as meaningless as anything shared between the two of them could be.

For a moment, though, Sam hesitates.  Dean _is_ under a spell, after all, and clearly not in his right mind.  He’s practically been drugged, but thus far Dean hadn’t done anything he would normally have actually objected to _doing_ ; it had merely been the obviousness of his actions that had been out of character.  Normal Dean might _want_ to lie down in the back of the Impala and press his face against the leather, but never _would_. 

He’s basically just had his inhibitions lowered, Sam reasons.  Gingerly, he places his hands on Dean’s hips.  “You sure you want to do this?” He asks, because he and Dean have fucked around drunk before, but this is slightly different.  “Sure you don’t just want to roll around on the sheets some more?”

“Pfft!” The puff of air sounds almost offended, and Dean’s brow furrows into disgruntled lines.  “And have you ignore me some more?” Dean asks huffily.  His hands reach Sam’s shoulders, and they slide slowly down to cover Sam’s pecs.  His frown shifts into a crooked grin.  “Rather roll around in the sheets with _you_ , _Sam_ my.”

Before Sam can say anything else, Dean leans in close and bites lightly just under the side of Sam’s jaw, teasing the skin with his teeth.  It seems like Dean smells better than ever, the musky scent of him somehow heightened as Sam leans his head back to give Dean more access.  His hips flex under Sam’s hands as they roll downward a bit harder, rubbing against the hard line of his dick.

“Bed?” He croaks out as Dean moves down his neck.  Dean’s lips don’t leave his work to reply; instead, his hands firm against Sam’s pecs, pushing him to lean further back in his chair.  When Sam does so, he’s rewarded with Dean’s nimble fingers rubbing his nipples through the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Clothes?” He asks hopefully.  Much as he’s enjoying the necking, all he really wants is to get Dean good, naked, and laid out on the big bed so Sam can fuck him senseless.  Seated as he is in the chair, he can barely move anything but his hands; he can’t even push back up against Dean’s ass because Dean’s legs lock him in place.  He wants to move, to _fuck_.  “Come _on_ , Dean!”

Dean hums against his neck, but it doesn’t sound thoughtful.  It sounds more like a _denial_ than anything.  “No,” Dean says, then licks a line from Sam’s collarbone up to just below his ear, affirming Sam’s suspicions. 

Glaring at the air in front of him because he can’t glare at Dean, Sam slides his hands down to cup Dean’s ass.  He squeezes it, relishing how it’s firm with just that lightest bit of give.  He wishes he could see it, pale with a light dusting of freckles, always seemingly happy to see him.  He tries to use his grip to pull Dean down against him harder, but Dean just laughs and completely stops moving.

“Dean!” Sam hisses, nearly ready to kill him.  “What are you _doing_?”

Humming again, Dean rocks back into Sam’s hands.  Sam’s dick is so hard at this point that Sam can almost feel the air above it moving, so close but out of his reach.   Dean laughs again when Sam growls and tries to palm his own dick, which he quickly realizes he isn’t able to do.  Dean is firmly in the way.

Just when Sam is about to strangle his brother, Dean begins pressing soft kisses along his jaw line.  “You’re so bossy, Sammy,” he murmurs.  “And you’ve got no sense of… timing.  Like to ride me hard and put me away wet.”  Dean’s shoulders move slightly in a shrug.  “I don’t mind it.  It’s what you do.  Impatient little Sammy.”  He pulls back, and for the first time in a while, Sam can see his face and all the mischief there.  “ _I_ can do better though.”

“You wanna fuck me?” Sam blurts out, surprised.  It’s not that they _don’t_ fuck that way, but Dean has never preferred it.  Sam’s not entirely sure _why_ , since he knows Dean likes to fuck, at least with girls, but that’s the way it’s always been.

Dean just rolls his eyes.  “No,” he drawls.  “We’re just gonna do things my way.  Which means instead of you going all caveman and attempting to fuck my brains out through my ass, you’re gonna sit there and let me do _whatever_ I want.”  He leans in again, breath a whisper against Sam’s ear.  “You’re just gonna sit there and _take it_ , Sammy.  Sound good to you?”

It doesn’t, not really.  Dean had it right when he said Sam wasn’t very patient in bed.  He wants to fuck Dean _now_ , not when _Dean_ decides he’s good and ready.  It doesn’t really seem like he’s got an option, though, so he nods stiffly. 

Dean just laughs in his ear.  “Don’t worry, I won’t be _too_ mean.” 

His hands creep down to the hem of Sam’s shirt and they, ever-so-slowly, begin to push the shirt up, unveiling Sam’s torso inch by inch.  Dean’s nails lightly rake over the skin they cover, making goosebumps appear in their wake.  The sensation is not enough, just plain torture, and Dean, by the smirk on his face, knows it.

When Sam’s shirt is finally thrown on the floor, Sam breathes a sigh of relief.  Then the warm weight of Dean’s body is lifting off him as Dean drops to the ground, shoving Sam’s thighs further apart so he can get between them.  Business-like, Dean tugs off his own shirt and then grabs Sam by the hips, pulling him closer so that he’s no longer leaning against the back of the chair, but sitting right on the edge, Dean’s body pushing his legs wide.  “There you go,” Dean murmurs happily, and then he leans in to nibble at the skin right by Sam’s belly-button.  It shouldn’t do anything for Sam, but a full-body shiver runs through him at the feeling.  Dean laves over it with his tongue, and arousal tickles done Sam’s spine.  He grips the sides of the chair with his hands.

One of Dean’s hands rests on Sam’s thigh; the other returns up to its previous position and those cruel fingernails scratch mercilessly over Sam’s nipple.  After being rubbed through clothing for so long, both of Sam’s nipples are red and peaked, over-sensitive to the extreme, and he nearly howls in surprise at the shock of pain-pleasure that Dean’s ministrations cause.

Dean grins as he works his mouth around Sam’s lower body like it’s actually an erogenous zone—and, oh god, it is, he’s _making_ it one.  Why had Sam never realized what a nose rubbing lightly through his happy trail could do to him?  How come he had never sat for hours stroking his fingers across the skin on his hips?  Why had he never taken to the time to lightly carress his own body?  Dean apparently knows his buttons better than he does, and he’s pushing every single one of them into simultaneous, erotic harmony.

It gets to the point where Dean has to devote both hands to holding Sam’s hips down, because they keep trying to thrust up, in search of some stimulation.  Sam’s own hands are buried in Dean’s hair, like Dean’s giving him the world’s best blow-job.  Except he isn’t.  He’s just driving Sam _insane_.

“Shhh,” Dean tells him, and then his hands are on the button of Sam’s jeans.  It’s kind of hard to tell, but Sam thinks he might be whimpering in hope.  He’s so hard that he feels like he’s gonna burst out of his jeans any moment, and all he really wants is for Dean to touch him—hand, mouth, or ass, he doesn’t care.  Sam thinks he’d be happy to fuck Dean’s _hair_ at this point.

“Dean… _Dean_!”  Sam’s moan ends on a hiss.  Dean’s clever, _clever_ mouth is undoing the button on Sam’s jeans, soaking it with spit as his tongue works the metal.  Every time Sam tries to pull him closer by his hair, Dean just freezes, waiting patiently until Sam stops trying to get him to continue.  He’s going _so slow_ that Sam thinks he’s gonna _die_ waiting.

Finally, the button’s undone and Dean grabs the zipper with his teeth.  He looks up at Sam through his eyelashes, those big green eyes dark with lust and yet somehow still mischievous.  “Dean, please, _please_ ,” Sam begs, no longer ashamed, no longer anything but a needy, turned-on mess.  But Dean doesn’t seem to care whether or not he begs.  He pulls the zipper down agonizingly slowly, bit by bit.

When the zipper is all the way down, Dean leans back on his feet.  He looks up at Sam again, mouth pulling up on one side.  “Go on.  Take them off.  Leave your underwear on.”

It takes Sam about two seconds to wrench his jeans off and throw them across the room before he practically falls back onto the chair.  “Please, Dean,” he pleads, and Dean responds by putting his hands on Sam’s knees.  They both watch as Dean slowly runs his hands up Sam’s thighs, occasionally pausing to squeeze, or nip, or kiss some bit of skin.  When he gets to Sam’s inner thighs, just inches from where his dick is making a wet mess out of his boxer-briefs, Dean leans in and runs his tongue along where the hem of Sam’s boxer-briefs has ridden up on one side.  Sam throws his head back with a deep groan as Dean sucks a hickey onto that spot.

“Dean, Dean, please, you _gotta_ ,” he pants, running his hand over Dean’s head over and over again, just to _do_ something.  “You’re killing me, you gotta, _please_ —”

Dean presses his lips against the head of Sam’s cock where it’s straining against the fabric of his underwear.

Sam’s hips instantly try to buck upwards, but Dean’s got a good hold on them and they’re not going anywhere.  Sam struggles, trying to push Dean’s mouth down onto him, trying to rock his dick up against Dean’s face, _something_.  His hands clench in Dean’s hair sporadically as Dean remains completely still.  “ _Please_!”  He’s whining, begging, whatever, _he doesn’t care_.  “Please, I’ll be good, I’m sorry, please, please, _please_!”

Dean hums against Sam’s cock, apparently pleased, and Sam spasms again, but Dean ignores it.  He opens his mouth to cover the fabric over the head of Sam’s dick and _sucks_ , those fucking gorgeous lips staining the precome-soaked fabric darker with spit.  Sam knows he’ll never wear these briefs again without getting half-hard, knows that all Dean’ll have to do to get him revved and ready from now on is rub his mouth against a napkin, open it around a beer bottle, talk, _whatever_.  Sam’s a goner.

He sucks lazily at the fabric until Sam’s just a stiff line of tension pressed up against him.  Then, he seems to relent, pulling back with a wet pop.  The underwear is absolutely filthy and Dean runs his thumb across where his mouth just was, making Sam shudder.  “Okay,” he says softly.  “You’re gonna take these off and then you’re gonna go lay down on the bed on your back and wait for me.  Okay?”

Sam doesn’t bother responding; he just moves.  He’s pretty sure he moves faster than the speed of light, because he’s on the bed in the what feels like the time it takes to blink.  It must take longer than that, though, because when he looks back over at Dean by the table, Dean’s naked as well, and stalking towards him.

When Dean gets on the bed, he doesn’t straddle Sam’s hips like Sam expects.  Instead, he moves so his dick is right in front of Sam’s face.  Sam opens his mouth to taste it, but Dean clicks his tongue and moves slightly away.  “Not that,” he tells Sam, and then he shifts forward, and Sam gets it.  “Can you do that for me?” Dean asks, sounding neutral.  “If I’m gonna ride you—”

“Yes!”  Sam interrupts, beyond eager.  “Yes, please, Dean, _do it_.”

He can’t see his brother’s face, but he thinks Dean is probably smirking as he scoots forward and holds himself open for Sam.  Sam doesn’t waste a second, licking eagerly at Dean’s small, tight hole.  He wants in there and he wants in there _now_ , but he tries to be patient, tries to make it good for Dean as he fucks his tongue forward.  Dean makes it easy on him; he rocks back into Sam’s ministrations, panting softly.  It’s messy and it’s sloppy and it’s quick, and it won’t be enough, so Sam cautiously lifts his hands to help pull Dean further open and sinks one thumb into him, alongside his tongue.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Dean swears, the first time he’s seemed as turned on as Sam all night, and his hips jerk back against Sam’s face.  “Yeah, Sammy, good boy,” he moans, and Sam whines at the praise, his cock jumping.  He presses his face closer, lifting his head off the mattress.  Dean’s so hot here, hot inside, hot body rocking down against Sam’s face.  If it weren’t for how bad Sam is dying to get inside him, Sam would want to live here forever.

Dean’s movements speed up, like he’s going to come, and then he wrenches himself backward.  He comes into view as he takes Sam’s dick in his hand (making Sam practically jackknife upwards) and covers it sloppily with lube.  His cheeks are flushed, his hair rumpled, and Sam thinks this is the sexiest he’s ever seen him.  He’s breathless, but he still manages to look somewhat stern as he guides Sam’s cock into his ass.  “Don’t come,” he instructs just before he sinks down.

Sam claws at the sheets as Dean opens up around his dick, inch by inch.  It feels like it’s gonna be impossible _not_ to come when Dean takes all of him, but Dean told him not to, so he _can’t_.  When Dean finally settles on him, all tight and hot and silky, he grins down at Sam, the kind of grin that means Sam’s in for a ride, so Sam grips the sheets tighter and tries to hang on.

It feels like Dean rides him for ages, switching between agonizingly slow and too fast, until Sam can’t stop his mouth and every other word that comes out is _please_.  He babbles about how much he _needs_ Dean, how fucking gorgeous he is, how this is the best thing to ever happen to him.  He asks him for more, harder, faster, _everything_. 

And Dean just grins at him and replies, “no.”

It’s only when Sam is actually sobbing, big, gasping attempts at air, that Dean leans down, brushes his lips against his, and says, “come.”

It feels like exploding.  It feels like dying and being born and fireworks, and all the cliches in the world, and none of them.  It feels like Dean’s the only thing in the world, like the rest of everything is an illusion, and the only thing that matters is Dean here, with him, now.  It feels _real_ in a way that almost nothing has ever felt to Sam before.

He blacks out for a couple of seconds.

When he’s finally able to think again, several minutes later, Dean is nestled up against his side, pressing his face into Sam’s neck.  Sam automatically glances down and is relieved to see Dean has already come.  He clears his throat and says, “sorry.”

Dean pulls back to look at him calmly.  His color is still pretty high and his mouth looks bruised.  He looks like the brother Sam’s known all his life and, at the same time, he looks like something else entirely.  It makes Sam’s mouth dry to look at him.

Sam has no idea what Dean sees in his expression, but, whatever it is, he just smiles and snuggles closer.  “Cuddle me, bitch,” he commands smugly and, speechless, Sam does what he says.

He’ll have to figure it all out later.  For now, he just holds his brother and tries to remember how to breathe.


End file.
